


What that rug has seen (too much)

by FLWhite



Series: Braxel [1]
Category: SKAM (France), SKAM (TV) RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Drunk Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Oral Sex, RPF, Rough Sex, Spanking, brat! Axel, elu adjacent, maxel, top! Maxence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: What I like most about Maxence’s place?The rug in his bathroom.Uh...that wasn’t very funny...*Axel knows what Maxence likes best in response to that voice is his blusteriest, spoiled-rottenest self, so he answers, with a little toss of his head, “What, coming over to your bathroom?”“Yes.” Maxence’s smile is almost audible. “To apologize to the rug.”





	What that rug has seen (too much)

**Author's Note:**

> In which I make short, scurrilous hay out of 20 seconds of Axel and Maxence interview footage and a weird joke. Watch out: there is a reference to suicide.

_What I like most about Maxence’s place?_

_The rug in his bathroom._

_Uh...that wasn’t very funny..._

“Fuck,” Axel mutters. His phone, freshly set down, rattles and rattles on the low table beside his bed, threatening to launch itself onto the floor. He snatches at it, jabs his thumb across the screen to answer the call. No need to check who it is. “Sorry! It just came out! I wasn’t thinking!”

“Evidently,” replies Maxence, coolly. “As usual.”

“C’mon. No one’s going to—going to make anything of it.”

There is a small silence. Then, almost inaudibly low: “You’re coming over before your trip.” There is no question mark at the end of the sentence.

Axel knows what Maxence likes best in response to _that_ voice is his blusteriest, spoiled-rottenest self, so he answers, with a little toss of his head, “What, coming over to your bathroom?”

“Yes.” Maxence’s smile is almost audible. “To apologize to the rug.”

*

The rug in the bathroom had struck him on his very first visit to Maxence’s little place, of course. Cut to resemble a blobby paramecium, it was thick and warm under his socked feet, and he liked how it felt well enough to almost regret having to make fun of it. But there was no way not to. First of all, who the fuck kept a shag rug that probably cost somewhere in the high three digits in their bathroom? Second of all, half of it was dyed black with splashes of arterial red; the other half reversed the colors.

It looked like, he informed Maxence, an emo kid had dyed their hair black and then slit their wrists in despair. He felt profoundly foolish halfway through the sentence, but the momentum was too great; afterward, the entire apartment had grown as silent as a wake.

“Suicide is nothing to joke about,” Maxence had said, his brows low and grim, the corners of his mouth drawn tightly down. Axel had begun to stumblingly apologize, but thankfully someone else changed the topic. In the depth of his panic, he couldn’t even remember who it’d been. For the rest of that evening he’d had nightmare visions of how rehearsals and the shoot and all the promo afterward were going to go, now that he’d ruined things with Maxence with his huge stupid mouth.

But for the next four months, Maxence had shown no signs of remembering Axel’s terribly unfunny joke. That awful expression of disdain hadn’t come back, not when Axel got squashed against a wall in the emergency stairwell on set and kissed till he thought he was going to pass out, not when Axel learned definitively that he did not like snakes on that still unbelievable first night together at Maxence’s, not when they, snickering at their own recklessness, half-walked, half-ran around the block holding hands at three a.m. to settle the lost bets that each owed the other.

*

But, eventually, he learned that Maxence, giggly fluffy-headed Maxence, never forgot anything.

It’d been a rare get-together at Maxence’s and there was a fantastically delicious, fantastically enormous, fantastically alcoholic bowl of hot rum punch in an antique crystal bowl carved with skulls and roses from God knew where. Like everything else at Maxence’s, it was basically perfect for Halloween. It had been an after-party. It’d been late, much later than he usually stayed out. That much he does remember on his own. The rest—what followed the third cup of punch—he mostly only knows from what he was told, later. Given that it’s Maxe who told him, it’s probably not the most reliable, a series of blurry, over-exposed slides with unknown spans of time between them.

At some point he’d gone to the bathroom and sat there on the closed lid of the toilet, scraping the dregs of his brain to come up with a joke about that fucking rug that wasn’t horrifically offensive, without success. At some point, Maxence had knocked on the door. “Are you all right in there?”

He must’ve said something, but he can’t remember what. The next moment he can recall is having been transferred to sit on top of the counter and being pressed against the mirror, the handles of the faucet digging into the small of his back, Maxence breathing hard against his neck. Then he was on his knees on the dumb rug, his cheek resting against Maxence’s thigh, trying to drag open Maxence’s fly with clumsy fingers; then he was sprawling on his belly across the rug, his chin cupped in Maxence’s right hand, the rest of Maxence naked and scalding-hot and coiled about him like a constrictor.

“You know,” Maxence said, punctuating every syllable with a punishing thrust, “the artist who wove this was a suicide survivor. It was a—” He heaved Axel onto hands and knees, then slapped his ass in perfect rhythm—“fund-rai-ser.”

Axel chewed his lip to keep in a yelp, hard enough to taste blood, buckling. “Sor—I’m sorr—” he’d managed, before what felt like the most thoroughgoing orgasm of his life. According to Maxence, he’d then immediately dropped to the rug like a statue of lead and didn’t open his eyes until after noon the next day.

*

“ _Putain,_ ” Axel says, when Maxence throws open the bathroom door. He’s put in red bulbs, under which the rug positively glows. Red tapers flicker in stands around the tub. Twinkling amidst the luxuriant pile of the rug is a neatly laid-out set of restraints, studded with silver O-rings. “Now it looks like a fucking pagan sacrifice.” He tries to swallow as quietly as he can.

Maxence inclines his head, nodding, his teeth scarlet in the light. “Close enough, my lamb.” He shuts the door behind him.

  



End file.
